Ratner's Star (15 page)

“I'd like to be excused now.”

“My books sold well,” Endor said. “I popularized the secrets of the brotherhood all too obligingly. But never a nonverbal word passed my pen. Light out for the hole, Endor. Claw your way down through the silicates to the core iron. Rest in that darkness safe from larvicide. Then start to claw again.”

A helicopter went beating past the hole. Billy watched it circle once and then touch down not far from the Cadillac, the blades stirring up dust and leveling tall grass, a state of disturbance created, the emotion that sweeps across the bow of a storm, more than natural agitation. It was as though the afternoon had been fine-sliced into altered rates of movement. A different kind of pace asserted itself, traced in frame-by-frame instants of urgency, expedience, stress, wind-whipped news carried from a very official location. It was an executive helicopter but the man who emerged wore a laboratory smock and red and white basketball sneakers. He gestured to Kidder, who immediately got into the Cadillac and drove off. Billy looked into the hole, hoping Endor would have an explanation for the appearance of the helicopter and departure of the limousine. But Endor had disappeared into the second hole. The man waved to Billy, who got to his feet and headed in the direction of the small aircraft. Since the blades still rotated loudly, the conversation that ensued was at a near shout.

“My name is Hoad. I work on the star project. Hoad. We were in the air when we got word about the star. They told us where you were. We came here to give you the word and get you back to headquarters at once.”

“What word?”

“The star is part of a two-star system. Space Brain has just confirmed it. Two-star system. We've suspected this but weren't sure. Now we know. The star is binary.”

“Ratner's star?”

“There are two of them,” Hoad shouted. “Binary star. Two-star system.”

“What does this mean? How does this affect things?”

“It doesn't affect things at all and in practical terms it means next to nothing.”

“Does it mean there's less chance of life on any planet that's in orbit in that kind of system?”

“There's less chance, yes, but it's far from impossible. There can be one or more planets in a multiple stellar system capable of supporting life. It's a three-body problem. Suitable orbits, equal mass, temperature variations. But the chance of life as we know it or don't know it is certainly better if the planet in question orbits a single star.”

“So it's bad news then.”

“What?”

“It's bad news.”

“It doesn't negate the message. The message exists. Someone or something sent the message from the neighborhood of Ratner's star.”

“There's one thing I don't get.”

“What's that?” Hoad shouted.

“Why bother telling me this kind of news? My job is supposed to be the code, break the code. What's the difference to me whether Ratner's star is one star or two stars? The message exists. That's all that matters to me.”

“Exactly what I just said.”

“I didn't hear.”

“Exactly what I said. The message exists. Your job is the code, not the star. But we wanted to tell you about the star because we thought it might help you with the code. Now that you know there are two stars instead of one, you might want to alter your calculations. Or at least view the transmission in a different light. I don't know. We don't pretend
to know. We hope you'll know. Come on—Poebbels is waiting in the chopper.”

“I'm not sure I want to ride in that thing.”

“I've logged I don't know how many hours in spiral-wing aircraft,” Hoad yelled. “It's safer than your own two feet.”

“Who is Poebbels?”

“Who?”

“Poebbels, who's waiting in the chopper.”

“Poebbels,” Hoad shouted. “Senior to me. Respected and feared. Supervises plausibility studies. The transmission. The telescope. The computer. The star system and planet. Othmar Poebbels. I hope he dies.”

“You hope he dies?”

“You weren't supposed to hear that.”

“Why are you wearing that outfit?”

“Poebbels insists we dress this way. Come on, let's get going. Whatever you do, don't act frightened. Even if you're terrifically scared of being aloft in a small aircraft, don't, whatever you do, show it. Poebbels hates to fly. If he knows you're scared, he'll be doubly scared. I don't think I could bear that.”

The only good thing about the trip, from Billy's viewpoint, was the part where he approached the helicopter with ducked head and unnatural scuttling steps. Although he wasn't wearing a hat he put his right hand to his head as he proceeded importantly to the aircraft. Despite his bent-over shoulder-first approach, he didn't feel foolish. He liked getting on the helicopter; it was, after all, an executive helicopter and he felt as he imagined six-figure executives probably feel when they duck under the blades and fly off to lavish spas for rub-downs and hard bargaining.

He was seated behind the two men. Hoad at the controls manipulated switches. The noise inside the aircraft reached a punishing intensity, all conversation edging gradually toward the level of an outright scream. Poebbels was about twice Hoad's age, Hoad twice Billy's. The boy had noticed, as he climbed aboard, that Poebbels had very heavy eyes. They gleamed in his head like die-cut precision parts. Hard to imagine eyes like that ever slipping out of focus. Above the eyes was a single broadband
eyebrow and above that was dark vigorous hair growing downward into Poebbels's forehead. The noise level brought about contorted looks on all three faces, an automatic shrinking inward.

“We agree the message exists,” Hoad cried. “One star or two, the message is not negated. The kid agrees on this. We agree. The pulses and gaps exist. We have contact. There is transmission. Something intelligent lives in the vicinity of Ratner's star.”

“Get this zombie ship in the air,” Poebbels screamed.

As the helicopter abruptly rose, Poebbels's entire body became taut. Billy felt his own fear uncurl from his stomach (a slick veneer of freak tissue) and dissolve into artless vapors. Poebbels, unclenching a bit, turned slightly in his seat and, although his mouth was only inches from Hoad's right ear, began to direct to Billy a series of high-volume remarks.

“I have work-ed in many fields,” he shouted. “I have done work with discrete things. I have done other work with continuous things. How do discrete things relate each to the other? I have wish-ed to answer this question. In the final resolve, all there is to do with discrete things is to count them. One two three four five. There is to count them and there is to use them in a universal logical language, which I hope one day to live to see. I am individually distinct. The individual Hoad is equally distinct. There is unbroken space between us. Of the continuous, I have also done good work. Flow and grow. This is my way to put this work in a short rhyming phrase. Flow and grow. To help me remember. This is what we do right now in this zombie ship. Rate of change every little instant. Move, movement, motion. All together in one smooth whoosh. We have broad wings and soar in untrammel-ed way through the sky of creatures of scant mass. If I give the order to suspend and float on air, then we are all of a sudden a discrete thing and good only to be counted. I make second order and we are continuous again. Flow and grow. I believe this is the meaning giv-ed by the star people. How to join together discrete with continuous. I have hope in your methods, smart fellow. To be sure, this is purely theoretical hope, since it is a fact that my studies in plausibility lead without escape to the conclusion that all events thus far pertaining to the star are lacking in verisimilitude, acceptability and likelihood.”

In the distance, beyond the main structure, Billy could see the synthesis telescope—hundreds of tiny dish antennas. A fear bubble traveled upward through his respiratory system. The eye-narrowing mouth-tensing expressions remained unchanged on all three faces. The sun was low now in the western sky. Othmar Poebbels, resuming his address to the boy, once again began screaming in his assistant's ear.

“Simultaneous great men of history,” he said. “Ideas bred in two scientific minds at one and the same time. Many examples. Two men thousands of miles away. Speak unsame languages. Differ in all respects. Twin theory phenomena. The dance of two radiant minds in the endless night. But always some conflict sneaks in. Dichotomy. Clash and counterclash. You have seen Endor. A sight to see. Digging in the ground. Endor and Poebbels. In the early days we did much good work together. I have progress-ed little by little to the belief that all thought can be put in scientific language which we then manipulate according to strict laws. Submit all reasoning to calculation. Throw in symbolic structure. In this way we end man-made error in the universe. The purest of pure science. This is my hope for the future of everything. Endor meanwhile is trapped in matter. I have talk-ed in this intimate way to show you my respect of your career, small American colleague.”

The aircraft began its slow passage down. Immediately all tension vanished. The noise and screaming, the vibrations, the grimaces, the fear bubbles, the lack of sufficient space—all were forgotten at once. Billy watched the horizon correlate itself with the helicopter's flickering descent. Evening peace was settling over the land in patterns of startling visibility. It was a time of precise and unimpelled delight, plain lines of blue and gray, things taken in, men returning, all scattered creatures come together from their day of tumbling in the sun. Units glided into place, every level of descent opening to the fall of the toy-bright object. There seemed no force in nature. All motion was uniform motion occurring in a straight line. Shadows of departed figures themselves departed. To fall in this way, uniformly, equal to but never influenced by other falling things, seemed almost to dispel the sorrow of ponderous being. Free, unswerving and independent of friction, the plunge was like a childhood sigh, devoid of obedience and rote, never evolving, nowhere close to the boned-out howl of those voices departed to the
edge of the pure word, evident in the sequence of related sounds only as a timeless sigh—not of this woman in murmurous bliss or that man half leaping in her arms in a spangled blaze of bird-fish symmetry and delicate brute creation, but of a child, only that, a child is all, his sigh a knowing contemplation of time and place and all those darker energies that constitute his peril.

“The craft is down,” Hoad cried. “I've brought the craft to earth.”

He flipped switches and then jumped out and circled the helicopter in an analytic manner, appearing in his smock and high sneakers to be a doctor of parked cars. As Billy began to rise from his seat, Poebbels put a hand to his forearm and looked carefully into his face.

“I will accompany you to the outskirts of the lobby,” he said. “Yes, I will be honor-ed to walk at your side, mathematical phenomenon.”

“Where's the lobby? I never saw any lobby.”

“Fourteenth floor.”

“What's it doing there?”

“Whatever lobbies do,” Poebbels said. “Your face is notably clean. This is most important in one's overt conduct. In my group I insist that all subordinates devote themselves to being neat, clean and quick. In order to win their fear, I am often irrational on the subject. Plausibility studies demand the utmost in these areas. We discover this empirically time and again in our daily work. I see you wear sneakers. Very excellent boy-model. I am happy at this moment. I abound with joy. The zombie ship is down and still we live. I have many times remark-ed to my colleagues that the only miracle attach-ed to human flight is that the human heart does not cease to beat in midair. You are happily an exemplar of neatness despite your time in or near the hole and I am glad to accompany you, transcendent intellect, to a point within sight of the lobby. But beyond that I have no wish to go, for I must hurry down to the first floor or I fear I will miss the arrival of the vaunted black fanatic from Australia.”

“Who's that?”

“He is said in words to be a dervish, fiend, deity and seer. On other occasions he is referr-ed to in purely scientific terms.”

“As what?”

“Master of space and time,” Poebbels said.

The blandishments of Softly's hands, Billy recalled, had made the small animal seem to frown, lap-pampered though it was, whispered to and courted in the pedagogic manner children use with pets (although Softly, of course, had left childhood far behind), and it was afternoon and very green on Softly's porch, immersed in spiral vines and bordered by trees and uncut shrubs, and they'd been talking of this and that, Billy recalled, when Softly plucked from nowhere the speculation: “I wonder if an object too dense to release light is any
purer
for the experience. Does it rank as a sort of Everyobject? Are
catatonic people setting a standard for the rest of us? Is the electromagnetic spectrum a model for the perceptual limitations implicit in any nonblind species of life? And other related questions.”